


Laughing on the Outside

by couqhdrop



Category: The End Of The Fucking World (TV), The Hunchback of Notre Dame (1996)
Genre: Crack Crossover, Crossover, Disney crossover, I really might not finish this, LMAO, Multi, Post-Canon, This is probably a spur of the moment fic, Why Did I Write This?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-22 02:33:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30031671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/couqhdrop/pseuds/couqhdrop
Summary: Bad girl Madellaine, neglected child of an Irishman who left when she was eight and a mother who has horrible taste in men, pairs up with self-declared psychopath Quasimodo, who is tired of killing animals and wishes to cinch a real, human life, on a coming of age trip that will define what people mean to each other.
Relationships: Madellaine/Quasmido (HoND 1996), Teri Darego/Eunice Noon
Comments: 3
Kudos: 2





	1. Quasimodo

**Author's Note:**

> Many people might not know WHY I make these kinds of crossovers. I just like retelling stories I love with characters I also love, while not copying things line for line and adding a twist to beloved Disney characters. I like the idea of Quasi having a love interest and I HATE Esmeralda as a match for him, so since he did end up getting one, I really like trying to imagine ways that could have happened. I know these fandoms have literally NOTHING to do with each other, but I kind of felt like doing this, so I'm here. I know this is like my fourth fic surrounding these two, but you know... 
> 
> Also, Quasimodo and Madellaine are the stark opposites of Alyssa and James. Madellaine is a level-headed lady who isn't prone to rudeness or anger, and is quite meek when it comes to confrontation. Quasimodo is a compassionate, empathic soul who wouldn't hurt a fly, unless that fly was out to kill someone he loved. But as a character arc, I've decided to make them WORK for these good qualities. This is a coming of age story, after all. So prepare for language, especially from Madellaine.
> 
> Also, a friend did request me to make something like this, because she loves TEOTFW and the way I portray my Quasillaine ship. She doesn't have an account or I'd tag her lolllll. But I am ambitious to agree. I love this show.
> 
> Also yes, I do have other ships lmfao. I post about Joseph: King of Dreams ever so often, and I have a Hamilton OC ship that I write over on Wattpad.
> 
> I wanted to try a first-person take on these two, at least in the first two chapters, as they serve as introductions for these two characters. I don't do it often because I can be quite bad at it, but. Heh. It will probably be fast-paced at first, because their introductions in the show were pretty quick as well, and it wouldn't suit either of them to mull about it. The dialogue in the introductions will probably be very similar, as well, but I DO add my own original stuff afterward, once I switch back to third-person for storytelling. And I wanted to keep the tone of the show's writing here, so it was a challenge to make everything sound so simplistic and quick, despite the heavy undertones. I love challenging myself.

I'm Quasimodo. I'm seventeen. And I'm pretty sure I'm a psychopath. 

I've never quite been in the most polished state of mind. Even before what my father likes to refer to as our _turning point_.

But at least I can say that I _have_ felt things in my damn life, however pitiful. What causes a child to feel something, anyway? The sunshine, shit food that rots away at your teeth, playtime in front of the television whilst trying to block out the screams of the man and woman who promised they loved each other? Sure, I mean, I've known these things. I was a child once. It was probably inevitable that I'd have to step up to the plate one day when my mother's grief proved to be too much.

What causes a child to weep? A small bee-sting, being given the worst _fucking_ name to date, or watching your own mother take her own life?

This is when _my_ life seemed to skid to a halt as well as her's. I didn't want to feel anything, so I self-conditioned myself for the time being to push every unwanted sensation aside. I was quite good at it, but I suppose I was too good. Because I never felt anything again.

I've always sort of wanted to punch my father in the face. I guess he means well, the old coot, but he tries too hard to chase down the malevolence that his wife left us with that I can't stand it. I can't stand that he can laugh, but I can't.

I was eight when I realized I had no sense of humor. My dad would always try his damnest to see even a sliver of a smile on my face, but I can't do it. It's either that he isn't funny, or _nothing_ is. 

I was ten when I was beginning to feel frustration again, for the first time. The frustration that I couldn't laugh, that I couldn't smile, that I couldn't allow myself to think anymore. My dad bought a deep-fat fryer that he saw on one of those shitty American shopping channels, and whilst he cooked food for us that would surely give me type-two diabetes if I didn't have the mind to feed it all to the dog, I stuck my hand in the boiling oil. I just wanted to make myself feel something. But physical pain isn't the damn same, I guess. So now my right hand makes people at school think I'm a burn victim or some shit. Guess I am.

When I was fifteen, I began to understand that I don't care about the feelings of others. I don't feel bad, I don't mean it when I apologize to people. But I wanted to. 

So I put my neighbor's cat in a box and ventured out to the woods. The thing probably had a name, but I didn't bother to check before I claimed my first life. When I realized that it hadn't made me feel the guilt I was hoping to detect on my radar, no matter how deeply I had padded it down, I decided to stuff the poor thing and stitch it together. I taught myself to taxidermy before I even knew what it was.

School was beneath me. I didn't care about my grades, my peers, or what my father said about the matter. But I guess it had given me good opportunities for observation on human behavior. Every human I passed by in the hallways looked to me as if they were splattered with blood and brain matter, because I suppose I wished to see them that way. I wanted to kill something bigger, much bigger. Something that could feel what I couldn't. I hated them for it.

So maybe then, while in prison, I'd finally get my emotions back. At _least_ guilt. It was either kill someone else, or myself. And I'd rather not die before I got to live.

And that's when I met her. Madellaine.

_"Hey."_

_I looked up from the orange I had been twirling about in my hand and I saw my classmate, I guess, looking down at me at the lunch table. She was the girl from chemistry, who sat in the back and managed to make the teacher cry once. I nictitated up at her, and she didn't sit, so I wondered what she was about to say._

_"Hey."_

_"I've seen you skating," Madellaine said, emotionless, and I didn't say anything._

_"You're pretty shit," she elaborated, though it looked like she was trying to tug back a small smile._

_"Fuck off."_

She's got a hot temper. But she wanted to be my girlfriend, for some reason, something about how I was quiet and she hated men who ran their mouths when they weren't in between her legs, so I guess I accepted. I figured she'd be interesting to kill.

So I pretended to fall in love with her. I mean, high school relationships never really meant something, did they? Didn't they _all_ go this fast?

* * *

"I haven't got a phone," Madellaine said, one evening, whilst we strolled home from school. Well, at least I think so. We were going somewhere.

"Okay."

"I smashed it."

"Okay."

"Like, on purpose."

"Okay."

"So you can't call me."

"Okay."

She spoke as if she was trying to initiate some sort of reaction out of me, but I really couldn't care less about whether I could call her. But I guess it wasn't authentic if I just kept quiet.

"I don't have one either," I mumbled, blowing my bangs from my face.

"Really?"

"Yeah. I hate them." I replied, my tone static and unfeeling. I wondered why she was falling for this. It was almost heartbreaking (well, if I could feel it in the first place) how much trust she put in me, practically a total stranger, who she had wanted to become her boyfriend out of her seemingly nymphomaniac tendencies. She wanted to have sex with me, which really I suppose was okay, if it wasn't for the fact that she'd probably never get to. 

I knew that people in love went out on dates, though. So I guess that was the next step.

"Do you want to go out on a date?" I asked her. "With me?"

"Okay."

* * *

I finally, truly, met Madellaine's hell-kissed rage at the diner, when the waitress came up to take our orders, and she began to list off the list of food she wanted me to pay for.

"I would like a banana split with extra cherries, some blueberry pancakes, and a hot chocolate with cream-"

"Aren't you hungry?" the waitress butted in, and I immediately saw her face contort with teen-angst attitude, straight out of a novel, of a young, volatile, seventeen-year-old woman, licked by the fires of Hell itself.

"Heheh..." Madellaine's smirk made me realize that nothing good could come of her next words, "And an extra fucking spoon."

"Excuse me?" the waitress lowered her small notepad, and I would have told Madellaine to hold her tongue, but I didn't really care enough. She was probably going to embarrass us, though, that much I could see.

"What?" my girlfriend looked at her.

"I'm sorry, but you can't use language like that, or else I'm going to have to ask you and your boyfriend to leave."

"Okay," Madellaine said in a mocking tone, and then her tone turned sincere, "Okay, I'm sorry... I'm sorry."

The waitress nodded, mouth slightly parted, and Madellaine's chest heaved.

"I will have a great big banana shit, with extra fucking cherries all on top of it-"

_How classy._

"Alright, that's enough. MARVIN!" the waitress craned around to the serving window of the diner, calling out for what must have been her co-worker, but I saw the glint in my prey's eyes burn even brighter, smoldering.

"Oh, yeah, go get _Marvin!"_ she cried out, crossing her legs and intertwining her fingers, "See if _Marvin_ can make a banana split for me, you _fucking_ cunt."

I think Madellaine must have had some issues.

I wondered how angry she'd be once I finally killed her.

* * *


	2. Madellaine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The following work is Rated M for subject matter concerning sexual themes, language, and death. I'd say it is rated 15-16+

I'm Madellaine. I'm seventeen. And I'm pretty sure there's something wrong with me.

Being quite shit runs in my family. So I always say that it's not my fault that the world is my tongue's angry whetstone. 

Sometimes I worry that I ruin things. I mean, I'm pretty good at it. But when it comes to stupid people saying stupid, boring things, I can't help but say how I feel. Especially if you say something makes me feel like I'm being talked down to.

_"Aren't you hungry?"_

Yes, I'm hungry. Why don't you just put the order in instead of fucking insulting me? I'm not fat, so just make the fucking food. If you insult me, I'll probably be sure to let you know. I want you to know in a way that will ensure you'll never speak to me like that again.

_"Oh, yeah, go get MARVIN! See if Marvin can make a banana split for me, you fucking cunt!"_

I mean what I say, but if I know any better, I would keep it to myself.

Sometimes I have these moments where everything is kind of too much. So I have to lie down. I'll look up and see the blue of the sky, the grey of my bedroom ceiling, or the black of the vespertine sky, and I just allow myself to meld with it. And for a split second, I forget my anger. I feel innocent. Like a dog, or an alien... or a baby.

_"Your presence is required, young lady."_

Though, as usual, it never lasted very long.

My mum liked to talk like Downton Abbey sometimes. Like we were living in a life that wasn't total British bullshit. 

She used to be nice before she divorced my dad and met Tony. Last week, he said that my ass was too fat to be considered normal, so I threw a chicken kiev at his head. Mom pretended, as usual, that she hadn't heard him. Now she has the perfect bullshit house with the perfect bullshit marriage with the perfect bullshit twins. But I have to admit, I do love the smells of my baby brothers' heads. And they are quite cute when they're not explosively shitting at three in the morning, and I have to be the one to clean them up.

I haven't seen my dad since I was eight. He never fitted in and he couldn't settle in the life my mom wanted, so he packed up his bags and left. He's sent me a card, though, every single year for my birthday without fail. I don't blame him, though, for leaving, as most would. Because I don't trust people who fit in.

* * *

My friends are all kind of bullshit too. I mean, I don't even think they're my friends. I just sit with them at lunch, receive dumb text messages from them in class and whatnot. They blend in, they fit in, and I hate it to pieces. 

I receive a text message from Heyley one lunch. Which would have been alright, I guess, if it weren't for one thing about this world that I hate more than anything.

"Is this from you?" I snarl, showing her the screen of my phone. She looks up.

"What?" she asks.

"What the fuck?" I begin to feel my anger silo overflow again, though the emotion was so homely at this point in my life that I don't even notice it.

"What?" she reinstates, beginning to get exceedingly defensive.

"I'm here. I'm literally right here!" I lean over the table so that I may show this girl just how dumb she looked right now, but she just scoffs and shakes her head.

"It's free."

Alright. That's it then.

I stand up, my searing gaze ripping through the glossy portion of her eyeballs, and in one fluid motion, I smash my phone on the lunchroom floor. The dissonant resonance causes everyone's head to look at me as I walk away, but there is one set of eyes not on me. That boy from chemistry. The quiet one. The one everyone rumors to be a secret serial killer or a Japanese robot.

I approach him, and I gaze down at him. He's twirling an orange in his fingers and I can't imagine what is going through his mind for his eyes to be so dead. Perhaps nothing.

"Hey," I say. He blinks up at me.

"Hey."

"I've seen you skating," I state, and he doesn't reply. I haven't, actually. I just need something to say. 

"You're pretty shit." I didn't know I was going to say that.

"Fuck off."

I think he's like me. 

So I asked him, a week later, to be my boyfriend. He just seems like the only person who could complement my fire. Who could handle it. Also, he's a pretty boy. I think he's properly beautiful, a ginger like my dad. I'm sure he'd look even prettier in between my legs.

So he said yes. And I kissed him right away.

* * *

* * *

After our first date, I felt sort of bad that I had ruined it for him. He may be weird, but... if I want a boyfriend to stay with, I suppose treating him right is a good place to start.

"Can we go to your house?" I ask.

He looks over at me, and he doesn't seem angry, which is good, "Okay."

I forget the trip there, but the first thing I noticed was the number of windows lining each wall. Strange, like him.

When I walk in, I take off my leather jacket and toss it somewhere. I'm sure he wouldn't mind. When I ask him about the picture frame in his living room, the one with a black-haired woman with his eyes, he says it's his mother. He says she lives in Japan. 

So... one of his parents has left him too. Wow. We really are a lot alike.

I make toast and the two of us sit down at the table. He's still quiet, but I don't mind. It's quite alright, even, 

_"The hunter has returned!"_

Until I hear a male's voice throughout the home, and I see my boyfriend's eyes shut tight in annoyance. Probably his dad. How wonderful.

* * *

* * *

"Cheers!" 

Quasi looks even more dead than before. His father, Jehan, I think his name was, is very jovial. I wonder where in the hell Quasimodo had fallen from the tree because they're quite opposite in spirit. And in looks. But they have the same nose and the same small little dimples.

"Well, this is nice," Jehan smiled, laughing like a jolly old man.

"What is?" I ask him.

"This! You two, eh?" Jehan pats Quasi on the shoulder, much like a father would, and his eyes crinkle around the edges in annoyance. Someone as stoic as my boyfriend, it seemed, couldn't keep up with his father's energy.

Quasi looks like he needs a shotgun, for either his own head or for his father's. Well, this guy is a barrel of laughs.

"I'll tell you what, Made _line_ , is it?" Jehan looks at me, and I begin to understand the boy's pain.

"Made _llaine_ ," I correct.

"Right, Madellaine, I was almost sure Quasi was gay," his dad explains, "Which is fine. I mean, obviously. But here you are!"

I almost want to guffaw at him. What a prick. 

"Maybe I'm gay," I say, gnawing on my toast, "Maybe he's asexual."

The man stares at me as if I'm some sort of poltergeist, and I decide to continue.

"We're dealing with a really broad spectrum these days," I finish. Before he can reply, I nod curtly, swallowing down my toast and getting up to go explore the upstairs. 

* * *

"Your dad's a prick," I tell Quasi on the roof. Again, no response from his face, but I do see him nod a bit.

"Yeah. Sometimes I feel like punching him in the face." he mumbles. 

"You should definitely do that," I reply. 

I decide to lean on his shoulder and he puts an arm around me. 

I feel comfortable with him.

Sort of safe...


End file.
